


Dress Me Up And Watch Me Die

by icewhisper



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Not a death fic, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icewhisper/pseuds/icewhisper
Summary: Eliot had been falling apart for a long time. They thought it began and ended with Mike. It didn't.





	

Eliot tried to medicate himself numb.

Tried.

Failed.

There weren’t enough drugs or booze in the world to cover up the hollowness in his chest or the sickened churning in his gut.

He knew they noticed, that they could see him spiraling into somewhere darker than he’d ever been before. Knew they didn’t understand the darkness, because Margo couldn’t bear to think of him being so far gone and Quentin may have been depressed, but he’d never looked at death as something welcoming. Eliot did, looked it in the eye every time he took a sip, a drag, or a hit.

Looked it in the eye and asked _how much longer do I have to wait_?

So far, he was still waiting.

He’d dealt with it better before, learned to lose himself in vices—food, as a child, and everything else as an adult—because it was easier than dealing with the thoughts bouncing around in his skull like a grocery store bouncy ball. They still weren’t enough and that ball bounced off dead brain cells like they were little trampolines.

_“I think Professor Lipson could have been wrong about me. I think something might really be broken.”_

He tried honesty. Tried and failed again, because it wasn’t Margo and when it was her, he couldn’t make himself say it again. Wished she could see the words reflected in his eyes, but she wasn’t the psychic and his mental wards were the only strong thing about him. Wished Penny was strong enough to break them down and _see_ , but even if he could, Eliot doubted the man would care much.

He didn’t quite think anyone would.

They thought it started and ended with Mike, as if snapping his boyfriend’s neck like a twig was the reason for everything. Like it was the reason for him and the unreliable mess he’d become since the dean breathed a _thank you_ instead of asking him what the hell he’d _done_. It wasn’t. _He_ wasn’t. Mike was just the tipping point.

Mike.

Not Mike.

The cute boy he’d met in the library wasn’t Michael McCormick. It wasn’t someone with pretty eyes and a nice smile. He’d flirted and fallen into bed with a puppet. He’d had feelings for a Mike that never was and felt like he’d been violated as much as he felt like he’d done the violating. Wondered who was at fault when one hadn’t been in control and the other hadn’t known until it was all too late.

He’d hoped for better, hoped that the possession was spotty and that something inside there had been Mike. Hoped that he’d had the real Mike for at least a little bit.

He read Mike’s book and wished he was surprised when he found out it wasn’t him. Not once. Not ever. The Mike he knew disappeared before he’d ever met him, eyes glowing blue and just… _gone_. The book stopped mid-sentence with a Mike he never knew seeing a cloud of moths. Done. Over. Gone. Lost. He’d been happy until the Beast came, living a life that was so normal that it may have bored Eliot to tears, but happy.

Logic told him it wasn’t his fault, that the Beast just as easily could have targeted one of them as his in, but Mike’s blood was on his hands. The Beast hadn’t used his friends when he led Mike’s body into the library and his friends hadn’t been the ones that went to bed with a puppet manned by the thing that was trying to kill them.

The Beast had used _him_ , played him like a fiddle and made him think that he might have something good in his life that finally made sense. He didn’t. He never did. It was stupid to think he would.

He wondered what people would say if he told them he could still hear the sound of Mike’s neck snapping.

Everything still felt like his fault and his stomach churned, guilty and sick and hating himself more than he thought he ever had. He wished he had the time to vanish into a too-hot shower and scrub his skin raw. Didn’t. Couldn’t. He stayed in his clothes with skin that felt like it was crawling.

He almost got them killed because of a carrot and wished they hadn’t saved him. He wasn’t worth it.

Fillory disagreed.

His hand bled.

Fillory chose him like it thought he needed a purpose, but he’d stopped looking for one a long time ago. It wouldn’t do a dying world any good to have a king that wanted to die with it, but he held his head high and pretended it was all okay. He bowed to Margo and hoped that she’d forget about him when she made it back home.

Hoped she’d make it back home and deliver the letter he’d hidden at the bottom of her bag. Words to parents that stopped loving him a long time ago. They didn’t deserve a goodbye, but the echo of the child in him begged for them one last time. Wished for the protection and love that disappeared the first time his father walked in on him with a boy and he learned unconditional love was a fairy tale.

He doubted they’d care if he was gone. To them, he’d died a long time ago.

He said vows in a land that wasn’t his, even if it thought it was, and wished he could muster up something for the nervous girl looking back at him. He wondered if she could see the emptiness his friends didn’t want to face. Wondered if she knew she was tying herself to a man with a dead soul.

Somewhere, there was a distant memory of a cousin’s wedding and the priest urging people to speak now or forever hold their peace. No one spoke, but Penny left in the middle and his own morbid cynicism twisted it into something that made his eyes burn. He pretended he didn’t feel a little abandoned by a person he barely knew.

Different lands. Different customs. He went to bed with a wife he felt nothing for. Told his friends it was a success and didn’t tell them that when he’d tried to picture someone else to get him through, he’d thought of Mike first. Didn’t tell them that he’d thrown up on them both in a second, crying and shaking until he couldn’t breathe and everything faded away.

They believed him and something in him cracked as his stomach twisted.

They fought.

They lost.

The Beast slammed Margo and him back, air knocked from their lungs and something squeezing his heart until it wanted to burst. As the darkness closed in, he hoped that was it. Hoped he wouldn’t wake up.

He was disappointed when he did.

The End


End file.
